


The More Things Change, The More They Stay the Same

by AstroGirl



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Gen, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 16:00:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstroGirl/pseuds/AstroGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every regeneration brings changes.  This one is no different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The More Things Change, The More They Stay the Same

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Trope Bingo for the prompt "genderswap." There's probably quite a bit I could say about it, but I'll just mention that it's partly a reaction to a few Doctor-regenerates-female stories I've seen that seem to believe that scenario will suddenly make "OMG being a girl!" the single most important thing in the Doctor's life. It's also worth nothing that this deals with gender issues from an alien perspective that human readers are not necessarily expected to share.

Here it comes. He can feel it beginning.

Oh, well. He's had a good run in this body. A good, long run. Can't complain, really. Well, he _could_ complain about the fact that he spent all of it still not being ginger, but he supposes he could have used hair dye, if he'd really wanted to. Bit late to think of that now, though. But never mind. There's always next time.

Or, he thinks, _this time_ , as the rush of artron energy overwhelms him and everything goes all yellow and tingly for a bit. And then for several seconds he thinks nothing at all because he is, technically, dead.

Funny, the things you can get used to. 

**

When he regains consciousness, his hands go immediately to his hair, but of course he can't tell what color it is now. He doesn't have eyes in his fingers, which is probably good to know. The hair is shortish, which is familiar enough, and sort of spiky, which is different. He amuses himself for a while by ruffling it back and forth, then suddenly remembers he's got a new face, as well, and tries ruffling that. Which doesn't really work, of course, so he tries touching it gently instead. Very fine bone structure, apparently. And a little pointed chin. Might be the kind of face that helps people underestimate you. That's always good. Come to think of it, he seems to be a bit shorter, as well. Or maybe the TARDIS console room has grown. That's always possible, although Occam's razor suggests otherwise. 

As for the rest of the body... Oh. Breasts. That's new. Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later, he supposes. The legs look good for running. Always important, that. And, yes, his clothes are definitely now a bit too big, so good old Occam wins again. He must remember to pop round and tell him later. And, oh, look, he's still wearing a bowtie. Why did he ever think bowties were cool? He rips it off in disgust and throws it over his shoulder. Clearly, a trip to the wardrobe is in order.

He only makes four wrong turns on the way, which isn't bad for regeneration-scrambled neurons. It could be he's getting better at this in his old age. 

It takes a while to find the right clothes. The body proportions are slightly different. Or, rather, they've changed in ways that are slightly different from the ways he's used to. But that's all right, he's got _lots_ of clothes -- really ought to hold a rummage sale one day -- and eventually he finds an outfit that seems to suit the person he seems to be now. Khaki trousers with lots of pockets; you can keep lots of handy things in pockets. Nice, sturdy boots. A white shirt with enough room for those new breasts; fortunately, they're not too inconveniently large. A black waistcoat with red and gold embroidered trim. Very fetching. And _no bow tie_. Although perhaps later he'll consider a fez.

He steps to the mirror to admire the result, and discovers, alas, that he is still not ginger. More sort of a dirty blonde, really. Oh, well. He does rather like the mussed-up spiky effect, at least. "Hello there, Doctor!" he says brightly. He smiles and waves at the person in the mirror, and she waves and smiles back. 

Hmm. "She." He supposes people will call him that now. Or she supposes people will call her that. Most languages are so limited that way. Or most languages whose genders are based on sex, anyway. Gallifreyan, of course, is much more careful about things, with all those fiddly pronoun options to choose from, and its words indicating sex, like those for all other physical attributes, inevitably come with temporal modifiers indicating that they're valid descriptions at this particular point in spacetime, but may be subject to change without notice. Or they do when you're referring to Time Lords, at least. And usually also when you're not, because who remembers to change how you talk about something that feels so fundamental? It must be very strange, she thinks, to have a sense of physical identity that isn't subject to change. Unless, perhaps, it's the conviction that you _really should be ginger_.

Whistling cheerfully, the Doctor saunters back to the console room, not making any wrong turns at all this time. "Where to next, Sexy?" she asks, but the TARDIS only hums happily, obviously glad she's still alive. "Me, too, old girl," she says. "Me too." 

Maybe, she decides, they'll go and look up River. It could be interesting to compare and see who has the nicer breasts.


End file.
